


Then Cross It Out

by disapparater



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Epistolary, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3362156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/disapparater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After finding each other, Harry and Draco are torn apart by war. But even when they can't talk to each other, they find they have plenty to say. This work bridges <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/263935">From A Distance</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/263941">Lost and Found</a>, by <a href="http://kjp-013.livejournal.com/">kjp_013</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then Cross It Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simeysgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simeysgirl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [From a Distance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/263935) by [simeysgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simeysgirl/pseuds/simeysgirl). 
  * Inspired by [Lost and Found](https://archiveofourown.org/works/263941) by [simeysgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simeysgirl/pseuds/simeysgirl). 



> [kjp_013](http://kjp-013.livejournal.com/), you chose From A Distance or Lost and Found as your starred pieces, and after reading through your work, they were the fics that stuck with me the most. I thought about which one to remix and how for a while, then one day I thought to myself, 'Why not both? Could these fics work if they were set in the same universe?' So I wrote a fic to bridge your two stories together. I hope you don't absolutely hate this idea, and I hope you enjoy the way I've tried to accomplish it.  
> As ever, a huge thank you to my beta, who not only supported this endeavour wholeheartedly, but talked options through with me, offered the most sensible advice and gave such valuable feedback.

30 July 1997  
  
Dear Draco  
  
I'm sitting quietly in the room I've been sharing with Ron. I can hear everyone else downstairs, moving chairs, chopping vegetables and shouting at each other. I should be down there helping, but I faked a headache and came here to rest. I love the Weasleys, but I suddenly knew I needed to write this down, even if I can never send it.  
  
There is so much going on, I've barely had two minutes to myself since I got here. I'm grateful, really, for the distraction. There are some things it hurts to think about. Hedwig, Moody. You. But I can't push you to the back of my mind forever, as if you don't matter. Because you do matter, so much.  
  
It's been two months, and in that time all I've done is try to forget it. Tried to forget what I did, because I didn't want to face it. But I can't do that any more. Tomorrow's my birthday and everyone is making a fuss, but when I think about cutting the cake, I picture myself slicing your skin.  
  
You hate me for it. As much as that hurts me, it saves you. I hope one day I'll be able to explain why.  
  
I didn't even mean to do it—not that. I meant for us to fight, yes, for it to seem real. To you, but most importantly, to everyone else. To them—to him.  
  
Those times we sat by the lake, that night we talked, when you told me everything—what you were meant to do. You trusted me. I couldn't betray that trust. But as much as I told you in return, I couldn't tell you everything. That was for your own safety as much—more—than anything else.  
  
What we shared, what we both saw and understood, it brought us together and I don't regret that. But, as much as I want ~~ed~~ to be with you, I couldn't let you come. It pains me enough that Ron and Hermione are coming. Even if what I did, and not even telling you, is immensely selfish of me. In the end, keeping you safe was more important than my wanting you.  
  
I'm so, so sorry about the bathroom. I didn't mean for it to go like that. I didn't know—I didn't mean to almost kill you. That's the exact opposite of keeping you safe. But you're okay—you're alive. And in some awful way, what I did worked even better that I could have planned. There's no way you'd not hate me after that—no way you'd still want me.  
  
Though I hope to Merlin you still can. That after the war, you'll let me explain. You'll let me make it up to you. You'll forgive me. That is the idea I'm holding close, the idea that's making the knowledge of what I have to do tolerable. It's what's driving me to get going, what will keep me going, what will see me through till the end.  
  
And now all I'm doing is waiting. Waiting for a wedding. Waiting to go. Waiting for war.  
  
I'm also thinking about you. Are you at the Manor? Are you safe? Is he there? Did I make the biggest mistake of my life when I cut you open? I hope you're okay. I hope I see you again. I hope I'll get to sit on the bank of the lake with you again. I hope I'll get to hold your hand again.  
  
\- Harry 

| 

18 August 1997  
  
Dear Harry  
  
The Manor gardens are overgrown and weed-ridden this summer. Neither the elves nor Mother get outside much any more, let alone find time to garden. It's actually quite a comfort, looking out of my bedroom window and seeing the overgrown azaleas and the topiary gone wild and free. While the war rages on, while people are dying, while I'm fearing for my own life—other life is thriving. It's a comfort, in some far-off, obscure way.  
  
Talking of far off, obscure things, I can't help but wonder where you are, how you are. I shouldn't be writing this letter, and I'll only have to destroy it unsent, but I felt the need for words.  
  
I've done so well at suppressing any thoughts of you for months now. You violently rejected me and I dealt with that the only way I knew how. But soon I'll be back at Hogwarts, with its lake, hallways and bloody bathrooms. Now thoughts of you won't stay hidden.  
  
If I was capable of it, I think I'd hate myself for that, but I just can't muster the effort. So I stare out the window, looking through the weeds, and wonder what you're doing. Mostly, I wonder if you think about me. About what you did. I stop short at wondering why you did it—I need to hold myself together, and the anguish those thoughts would likely bring would be too much.  
  
It's always been so easy to (make myself believe that I) hate you, so why now, when I have perhaps the most valid reason to hate you, is my heart not in it? Then again, I have decided you are something my emotions should not be involved in. I won't go as far as to say you broke my heart, but I'm sure now that you'll never get the chance to.  
  
My mind hates you, in a logical, emotionless way. Feelings seem beyond me. Is that something you've done to me, or is it living among torture, screams, fear and death that is the problem? I'll assume it's the latter.  
  
I think what bothers me the most isn't that you changed your mind—that you decided you didn't want me or that you'd never wanted me to begin with—it's how you then dealt with it. You could have just told me. You could have spoken to me by the lake, like you had done before. Hell, you could have gone back to ignoring me. I would have taken the hint. There was no need for it to get violent. Haven't we both seen enough of that already? Aren't we both going to see a lot more of that before this war is over?  
  
I should be safe. My family should be safe. I should be ~~with you~~ on your side. Instead, the way you decided to deal with your change of heart left me no choice but to turn back to what I knew. And now I'm spending the summer at the Manor, with Death Eaters as house guests, and our fearless, fucked-up leader camped out in the east wing.  
  
If I hate you for anything it's not the fact that you abandoned me, but the life you abandoned me to. We had a connection, from afar and in person, because of a shared outlook on life, because of a shared misery. Now you've let that misery divide us, because you were ruled by your emotions. By how you (thought you should?) feel about me.  
  
I thought you understood. I thought you saw that there were bigger things going on than our social lives. Was I kidding myself? Were we really ever seeing the same things? Was the time we shared, silently, by the lake meaningless to you? Were your words a ruse? Were your secrets even true? Did the looks we shared not mean to you what they did to me? Was that conflict, not understanding, in your eyes?  
  
Well, shame on me, I guess, for believing you capable of being a deep and complex human being. You're just a puppet, ruled by others' opinions of you, others' plans for you. I know I'm guilty of the same. I'm my father's puppet, the Dark Lord's puppet, I've even been my own puppet. But at least I'm not blind to that fact.  
  
I'm a puppet, but I thought you were going to help me cut my strings. Instead you cut me open.  
  
\- Draco   
  
---|---  
  
4 December 1997  
  
Dear Draco  
  
I'm not even sure where I am right now. We've been moving so often, I can't remember where I am from one day to the next. It's another forest—they all start to look alike after a little while. I sit in the entrance of the tent on watch, staring out into the forest for hours, but I never really see it. I'm looking between the trees, for things—for people—who shouldn't be there. My mind, though, is far away.  
  
Sometimes I think of Dumbledore, quite often I think about the Horcruxes, but a lot of the time my mind is stuck on you. More than once I've been sitting here looking out into the trees and have imagined you walking out of them, towards me. That you figured out my plan, knew why I had done it, and had come to be with me. Even though no one can find us, I imagine you would figure out a way.  
  
It's becoming a problem.  
  
At night I sit up by a faint Lumos and at look at the Marauder’s Map. I see you in the dungeon, asleep in your bed, like I should be. During the day I watch your dot move about the castle. You go from class to class, the library, your common room. I lose sight of you amongst the masses in the Great Hall at mealtimes, though I can't help but notice that you avoid the sixth floor bathroom and never stroll around the lake.  
  
I'm glad it worked. I am. I'm glad you still hate me. I hope we can walk around the lake together again one day. I expend a lot of energy on thinking and hoping many things about you. A lot of energy and a lot of time. I'm sure Hermione knows something is wrong, but she seems to be putting it all down to the necklace.  
  
The necklace—when I'm wearing that, I don't like to think too much about you. The thoughts turn depressing and menacing. Sometimes when I imagine you emerging from the forest, you walk towards me with a look of pure hatred. You lift your wand, and I'm too stunned to react. That's when I go and wake Hermione to swap with me. That's when I sit up, sans necklace, and watch your sleeping dot.  
  
It needs to stop. As much as I hope, as much as I want, I'll never get the chance to be with you again if this war doesn't end. And I'm the one out here, doing what needs to be done to end it. There is quite a difference in having you and your forgiveness as motivation, and having my desire for you as a distraction.  
  
For now, I need to push thoughts of you aside and focus on what needs to be done. Once Voldemort has gone, there will be all the time in the world for you. For us?  
  
\- Harry 

| 

16 November 1997  
  
Dear Harry  
  
I hadn't known Hogwarts would be worse. Worse than last year, and even worse than the Manor. At the Manor the Dark Lord was often there and the other Death Eaters were always close, but outside of meetings and meals, I could avoid the lot of them. Regardless of my Death Eater status, they all looked down on me and barely batted an eyelid when I would ensconce myself in my room.  
  
Granted, being viewed as a lesser among deranged Death Eaters often led to a unique kind of ridicule and torture, but here at Hogwarts, that experience is tenfold and inescapable. The Carrows make their presence felt throughout the school, and I get no special treatment for the black mark on my arm. Some people, who I once would have named as friends, relish the changes. In what used to be Defence Against the Dark Arts they throw Cruciatus around as swiftly as the Inquisitorial Squad used to dock house points, and with just as little remorse.  
  
Of course I'd known you wouldn't be here. Disappearing as you did not long into the summer. When the Dark Lord found out you hadn't been at that wedding, protecting your friends and make-shift family, his outburst had been tremendous. I would have enjoyed his failure, had I not been too focused on avoiding his curses.  
  
Since then our fear-inducing leader has kept his plans closer to his chest. Only the inner circle are privy to what is happening and what needs to be done, and that circle no longer encompasses the Malfoys. In many ways I am glad for that, but in some ways it is a hell of a lot worse. I'm in the void, the space of not knowing.  
  
I hear rumours, of course, but they vary wildly, and when the two strongest rumours (that you are dead and strung up in the Manor basement or that you've accumulated an army and will be storming the castle imminently) circulate every few weeks, one has to assume they are being circulated on purpose. Other rumours range from the outlandish to the frightening, and I'm sure I don't believe a word of them.  
  
But then there are the quiet whispers. They are the words and mantras of the light, but they reach even me. You are out there. You are fighting. You have a plan. You will come. They aren't rumours; they are hope.  
  
And despite it all, Harry, I hope. Despite what you did, despite the hatred we feel for each other, I hope you are safe. I hope you are winning.  
  
\- Draco   
  
---|---  
  
25 March 1998  
  
Dear Draco  
  
I guess this is goodbye. A goodbye you'll never know about.  
  
Or was the real goodbye when I ripped those wands from your hand? Was the blank, distant expression on your face as I Disapparated all the goodbye I get from you? Was your refusal to identify me a dismissal? A snub dressed up as a favour?  
  
I had consciously put you out of my mind, but thoughts of you began flooding back in, along with fear, as we were being led up the Manor's drive. Just as much as I hoped you would be at Hogwarts, away from all this, and safe, I couldn't help wanting you to be there, wanting to see you.  
  
When your mother said you were there, when I saw you rise from your chair, my heart seemed to leap and sink simultaneously. At first I couldn't bear to look at you; I didn't want to see the hatred in your eyes. I didn't want you to realise it was me, even though Hermione and Ron being there would have made it obvious to you.  
  
When you finally looked at me, when I couldn't avoid your eyes, I saw how carefully controlled your emotions were. Even in that situation, with everyone—even me—waiting expectantly for you to out me, even being suddenly faced with the man who had betrayed you and sliced you open, you remained so cool and unfazed and... distant. Like you didn't give a shit. I couldn't help admiring your strength, even as it ripped my heart out to see it.  
  
But you didn't even confirm Hermione and Ron's identities. You barely looked at them before turning your back. As much as you might hate me, you've given up on Voldemort, haven't you? You don't want him to win this war. Well, I'm not going to let him. I'm going to fight, and I'm going to finish this, for everyone—for you.  
  
Then everything sort of blew up at the Manor. Everything went so fast. I wish I'd had time to squeeze your hand as I snatched the wands from it. Now I have another thing I'll never get the chance to apologise to you for.  
  
We got away, but not without cost. And now I'm here, sitting on the beach in front of a quaint little cottage, looking out at a picturesque sea. And now I feel hollow—numb, but determined.  
  
Everything is falling apart, just as everything is falling into place. I'm abandoning the Hallows, just as I abandoned you. I lost Dobby, just as I'm losing you. I know enough to be able to go after the next Horcrux, just as I'm beginning to suspect how this war will end for me.  
  
I need to put you out of my mind once and for all. I need to get over you. We won't happen, I know that now. But you'll be okay; I'll make sure you're okay.  
  
I have my friends. I have Ron and Hermione beside me. I have Luna here, now. I have the Weasleys. I hope I'll get to see Ginny and Neville before the end. I can imagine I will. I can let myself imagine I'll have the rest of my life to make new friends, new lovers, new people-who-aren't-yous.  
  
\- Harry 

| 

7 April 1998  
  
Dear Harry  
  
I'm still at the Manor. After the chaos your fly-by visit caused, I never did make it back to Hogwarts. Things here are different since your appearance. Everyone is more on edge, everything seems rushed. The always-tense atmosphere has been turned up a notch and only seems to be intensifying. It feels like a build up to something. A build up to the end.  
  
It's been almost two weeks. Two weeks since you showed up at the Manor, your face swollen and unrecognisable. Since I reluctantly looked into your eyes and knew without a doubt it was you looking back at me. Since you ripped the wands from my hand and Disapparated, once again leaving me defenceless on the floor, this time amongst a sea of crystal shards, rather than my own blood.  
  
But this time something was different. It was a scant few seconds I got to look you in the eye, with my father all but breathing down my neck, waiting for me to confirm what I had been sure of the second I saw you shoved through the door. Those seconds were short, but somehow they also stretched on for hours. On some level, they still are. It was two weeks ago, but I've been stuck there, ruminating on it all that time.  
  
You don't hate me. I really thought you did. I thought you'd cursed me in that bathroom because you couldn't stand it any longer; couldn't stand me any longer. I thought my feelings for you had scared you off. I thought you'd hated me all along, but I was wrong.  
  
When I looked you in the eye, there in the Manor's drawing room, I was overwhelmed with what I saw staring back at me. There was a healthy dose of fear—the situation you were in, I'd be worried if there hadn't been. But there was also relief, a plea for help and, did I imagine it, hope?  
  
You're an idiot, do you know that? Then again, it's taken me this long to figure it out, so I guess maybe I'm an idiot too.  
  
I thought I hated you for a while there. After everything we'd seen, everything we'd shared, for you to even want to throw curses at me—it wasn't right, but I was too caught up in the moment to realise that. And that had been your plan, hadn't it?  
  
Because I'm sure now you had a plan. You planned to keep me at arm's length, away from you. In some fucked up, noble way, you planned to keep me safe. I'll be damned if I can figure out how though, because what kind of plan involves almost killing me?  
  
Nothing I can think of entirely explains your actions, but your eyes couldn't lie. Not in that moment. And the truth I saw there—the lack of hatred and the undeniable relief—is the only reason I wavered. The only reason I wasn't holding those wands tighter. The only reason I felt my own relief, my own hope, when you took them and escaped.  
  
I have new reason to fight, now. New reason to live. The Manor gardens are still overgrown and full of weeds, but now I picture us, walking through their tangle, alive and together.  
  
We can start over. It makes no logical sense, but I think there might be a chance for us yet. And why should I expect it to make sense, anyway? You and I have never made much sense, have we, Harry?  
  
\- Draco   
  
---|---


End file.
